Cabin Pressure Drabbles
by smallsteps32
Summary: A series of Cabin Pressure drabbles as they come to me. Douglas centric, because he's a darling.
1. Chapter 1

**Hello all. This isn't a chapter fic. This is going to be a collection of the drabbles that I've written for Cabin Pressure, most of them from tumblr prompts. Peruse as you will, and do please enjoy.**

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**Prompt: Orchid, Twinkle, Bracelet.**

It was the middle of winter, but Douglas had bundled himself in his jacket and coat, stolen the deck-chair that Carolyn kept in the hold, and set himself up outside the porta-cabin. _Behind_ the porta-cabin, to be precise – that way Carolyn wouldn't see him from the window.

He wouldn't have needed to brave the cold if the snow hadn't delayed their flight a whole week. The box of orchids would have been gone, not wilting in their cardboard box. Now he was burdened with the task of picking through them to find what few flowers were still good enough to trade in Moscow – when they eventually got there.

"Isn't there some sort of smuggler's rule?" Martin asked from Douglas' side, where he sat upon a garden chair commandeered from the engineer's hut. "Never get the same stock, o-or never go back to the same person?"

"I don't know what mafia flicks you've been watching, but that's not how it works," Douglas replied, smirking as he stole a sideways glance at his companion.

Martin's cheeks were flushed red from the cold, and his lips were set in the determined concentration that he epitomised. His slim hands were busy winding together the withered orchids that Douglas had discarded.

"What are you doing?"

"Daisy chains," Martin replied, without looking up.

"Those are _orchids_."

"I know they're orchids," Martin sniped, then sat back and lifted a hoop of flowers onto the tip of his finger. "Come here."

Without waiting for Douglas to assent, Martin reached out and slipped the ring of orchids over his wrist, concluded the motion with a smug 'hmph."

"Are you asking me to be your prom date?" Douglas drawled, but he shook his wrist so that the tattered flowers were no longer at risk of falling into the snow.

"No, I'm getting some use out of something you were planning on throwing away, and using my time productively."

"Are you sure?" Douglas inquired, smiling as he reached up and tipped Martin's hat where it was keeping his head nice and warm. "There's a definite loving, prom-aspiring twinkle in your eyes."

"You're a sod," Martin muttered, but the corners of his lips curled upwards as he folded his arms and adjusted the folds of his coat against the cold.

"You didn't _have_ to come out here with me."

"It was heavily implied that I did," Martin retorted. "You were standing at the door hinting at me – I-I thought you wanted to sneak off for some kissing, not to sort through your failed haul."

"I'm sure I can muster up some kissing, Captain," Douglas remarked, and dropped the orchids in his hands into the box at his feet. His fingers brushed Martin's cheek.

Martin rolled his eyes, but leaned across the space between them to receive a brief kiss – shorter than Douglas would have liked, but still worth the exasperated expression on Martin's face when he settled back down.

"You're still a sod."

"I have an orchid bracelet that says otherwise."


	2. Chapter 2

**Prompt: Rain, Tea, Photo**

The thing about being Douglas Richardson was that in spite all the long-standing failures in his life, he was still remarkably lucky. Talented and relatively hard-working when he needed to be, yet, but he was marginally content with the understanding that he could breeze through life and never quite hit the rocky bottom of utter disaster.

However, when an unlucky day came around once in a blue-tinted moon… it didn't just rain, it poured.

More aptly, it poured over his head as Douglas knelt beside his beautiful Lexus, the one crowning jewel in the carved out hollow that was his actually rather cosy set-up on the edge of Fitton, and used all manner of polish and filler and buffer to remove the grotesque disfigurement that marred its shiny physique.

He had arrived home via taxi from the air-field, only to discover that in his absence some urchin had keyed his car. It was easily fixable, with some elbow grease, but Douglas could have done without the gallons of water pouring over his head and making his hair drip into his eyes.

Never mind.

Once the job was done, Douglas hurried inside, dried himself off, and set about making himself a warm cup of tea. A perfectly made cup of tea could make even Martin's pithiest fit of pique half-way bearable. True, Arthur couldn't quite make a perfect cup of tea, but he was getting better.

As the charming fumes wafted up his nose and the warmth chased away the chills under his skin, Douglas sighed and looked about his living room. It was still and quiet and far more empty than he was comfortable with, but he was more used to it than he had been used to anything else. The stillness was one companion that didn't stay away long, and it panged all the more after the stressful, strained sort of flight that their last had been.

It was only when he lowered himself into the armchair that Douglas' eyes fell upon the oddly shaped parcel on his coffee table. He plucked it up and inspected it, and suddenly recalled taking it from Arthur and forgetting to open it in light of a million and one other things that he was putting off.

Douglas set about unwrapping it, but paused to read the note that was slipped inside.

_Hi, Douglas – we got the prints and Mum said there were too many so I remembered that you said you were excellent at photography but a bit annoyed that Mum made you be in the photos instead of letting you take them. Anyway, this is a spare one for you. We've all got one now, which is brilliant, because we all look really great. – Love Arthur._

Douglas couldn't help but smile. He set the note aside and unwrapped the hard, rectangular object. It was clear that Arthur had put a lot of effort it. There was a frame and everything.

It was the photograph that really made Douglas smile though. It pushed the rain and the poor flight and the scratch along his car – all of it from his mind.

Carolyn had wanted company photographs as well as a video, so they had all lined up, tongue in cheek, and played along.

It was worth it.

The four of them looked good together, standing side by side under GERTI's wing – MJN all together and smiling, pretending that they were a happy family and smirking because they really were, under all of their bluff.

Douglas' day got a little bit better.


	3. Chapter 3

**Prompt: Fever, Lobster, Blue**

Douglas would be damned if this fever got the best of him.

The stars had aligned and given him a perfect day.

This was the first time in years that he was in the country on his eldest daughter's birthday.

Verity was in a fantastic mood due to a flurry of success on her Master's Degree and had agreed to spend the day with him. When asked what she had always wanted, her answer had been 'to eat a lobster dinner' – one that she didn't have to pay through the nose for.

Martin agreed to collect the perfect lobster from a 'friend' on the coast, earning Icarus a few pounds and Douglas a happy daughter.

The stars had aligned…seen Douglas' joy, and decided to strike him down with a high temperature, slight dizziness, and a tickly throat.

Not that that would stop him. Douglas was a trooper. Verity was going to have a nice day if it killed him. He'd just be sure to die after she'd left.

Douglas was just putting the finishing touching to the meal, embellishing so that he could pull it out later without needing to fuss in the kitchen and lose precious moments with Verity, when said daughter appeared at his side. He hadn't heard the front door, and was slightly ashamed to admit that he startled…if not sluggishly.

"Oh, darling, I didn't hear-"

"Are you alright, Dad?" Verity asked.

Her eyes wandered to the lobster and childlike anticipation flashed across her face, but she hastily resumed her concern as she placed a hand on her father's back.

"Yes, yes, I'm fine. Now, how about you-"

"No, you're not fine," Verity shook her head. Her voice was soft, the perfect bedside manner. "How about you go and sit down."

Douglas thought he put up a fight, but in the end he found himself being pushed down onto the sofa. The next moment he was swathed in the big blue blanket from the guest room that both of his daughter's used. The next…he wasn't sure when it happened, but he had tea with honey wrapped between his palms.

"But your birthday – the lobster-"

"Are you kidding?" Verity flopped down on the sofa beside him and tucked her feet up. In her hands, she held a bowl filled to the brim with lobster. "I'm eating this whether you can or not."

Warmth settled in Douglas' chest and he couldn't stifle a faint chuckle, or a smirk, as he watched his daughter.

She was beautiful as ever, smug smile fixed on her lips as she reached for the remote and turned on the television. She looked perfectly content.

"God. I can't remember the last time I had the TV to myself. My roommate normally hogs it – this is delicious by the way."

Douglas hummed his acknowledgement and lay back, hugging the blue blanket more tightly as the fever and contentment took hold. Verity talked to him even though she wasn't sure he was listening, and it was perfect.


	4. Chapter 4

**Prompt: Bannana, Stew, Teddy**

**douglasrichardsonskitkat** answered:martin/douglas banana, stew, teddy

It was all the banana's fault.

Or, to be more exact, the banana fun-facts that Arthur had found on the internet telling him that bananas were better before they were ripe…or long after…he couldn't remember.

That was the mantra that Douglas had clung to, throughout the second leg of the flight, during the ride to the hotel, and all the way up to their hotel room as he grew queasier. It was that or turn on Arthur, which Douglas had steadfastly refused to do...once he had calmed down.

"How does one ruin banoffee pie? You chop up the bananas, you put them on the base, bang on some cream-"

"I know, Douglas," Martin had sighed as he had slid his First-Officer's arm over his shoulder. "You've said that three times."

"Oh…have I?" Douglas had murmured. "The nausea must be making me dizzy."

Now, Martin slid into the darkened hotel room, cheap but medicinal stew in one hand, spontaneous gift in the other. He kicked the door shut and crossed the room.

Douglas was huddled in bed, covers bundled around him as a faint breeze blew in through the open window – he couldn't decide whether he was hot or cold.

Gently nudging the lump that was Douglas' shoulder, in order to check that he was awake and alert him to his presence, Martin lowered himself onto the mattress beside him. He kicked off his shoes and placed the stew on the bedside table, then turned and waited for Douglas to stop grumbling.

"What…go to sleep, Martin…"

Douglas rolled over onto his back, kicking the covers down. Even in the weak light from outside, his skin was clammy and the lines around his eyes were severe.

"I brought you something," Martin announced, but Douglas cut him off with a hand thrown up and curled around his wrist.

"I'm not hungry…I won't be hungry until the end of time. Arthur's killed me."

"Well, as your Captain, I have to insist that you eat some of the stew. If not now, then later," Martin replied softly. Douglas only grunted, so Martin brushed a hand over his sweaty brow and leant down a press a small kiss to his unusually rumpled hair. "As your partner, I've brought you something to cheer you up."

From behind his back, Martin revealed the small teddy-bear that he had found in the airport gift-shop. He had nearly walked past the shop, until the bear, in its quaint Captain's uniform, had caught his eye.

Douglas' brow furrowed, but in his sluggish state, he reached out and took it.

"He wears your uniform better than you do."

"He's to keep you company while I go and finish the paperwork," Martin informed him, ignoring the prod as he squeezed Douglas' shoulder. "Do you want him?"

"No," Douglas grumbled, but he rolled onto his side, taking the bear with him.

Smiling to himself, Martin left Douglas with his phone within reach, bear tucked under his elbow, snoring before the door had even closed.


	5. Chapter 5

**Prompt: Househunting**

If there was one thing that Douglas had never thought he would be doing again, it was uprooting himself and starting afresh… and yet, he was pleased to be doing it. This time there was a sense of finality to it, a sense of… realness.

That wasn't to say he hadn't loved his wives. Douglas had loved them, even if sometimes his booze addled memory made it seem like he had only loved the idea of them. Douglas was a hopeless romantic to the bitter end, and he had loved them.

That was why he had put on such an act – tried so hard to keep them, to please them, to be exactly the sort of man that he wanted to be. The perfect husband: charming, loyal, hard-working, with a dash of excitement and eager to please… and they had all fallen for it until the cracks started to show.

Even when the worst of the cracks had been paved over and he was eight years sober with a fairly stable job, Helena had seen through the cracks. Underneath the act was an aging man, a failed pilot, a recovering alcoholic, and an unwillingly absent father. So the pretending had come to an end.

Which was why this time, something felt real and secure and although it was tentative, Douglas was sure that what he and Martin had was going to last. Because it wasn't perfect, they weren't the sort of people that bought each other chocolates and wrote poetry. They gve each other the better landings and played games long after the air-field had emptied and the groundsmen had gone home. They were the best of friends, and often the worst of enemies, and somewhere in the middle they were colleagues who knew exactly how persnickety and petulant and sarcastic and caustic and down-right unlucky both of them could be.

And for the first time in what seemed like forever, Douglas felt like somebody could _see_ him.

That was why they were house-hunting. It was a natural step in most relationships… but that wasn't why they were doing in. In fact, Douglas had been wary about suggesting it for exactly that reason. But they agreed to it because it was practical – and when Douglas thought about it, the dedication that Martin put into things being 'practical' was quite endearing.

Martin couldn't stay in Parkside forever. Douglas refused to spend another night listening to students through the floor.

Douglas couldn't share the house that he and Helena had bought with Martin. It didn't seem fair.

Martin's choice of house was practical and affordable and robust and everything that he valued.

Douglas' choice of house was… too close to perfect. He wasn't the sort of man that made a perfect husband, no matter how much he pretended, but he wanted it more than anything. It was the romantic heart in him. He wanted a white-picket fence and space enough for guests. More than that, he wanted a garden – a proper one, with grass and a patio, room for his youngest daughter to play and space for if they ever wanted a pet, with an area of course for when he retired and spent his days tending to flowers and vegetables and a herb garden and pulling fruit from a small tree to turn into jam.

Inside every daring, adventurous sky-god, there was a quaint little poet's heart that wanted to indulge in small luxuries with his beau whilst a family of bluebirds fluttered at the bottom of the garden that he really wanted.

Douglas didn't tell Martin. The romantic in him shone out whenever they were together, but he reigned it in when it came to decisions… best not to scare him away, or worse, to accidently fool him like he had his exes.

So Douglas gazed wistfully at the sweet little houses that huddled together in the half-mile surrounding the air-field, said nothing, and listened instead to Martin as he chirped away and marched them through a variety of unfamiliar and unbearably modern flats.

"This one's quite near the main road, and it's got excellent phone reception."

"This one's quite cheap, a-and we wouldn't have to drag ourselves up eight flights of stairs after a long – well, a long flight."

"This one's got new fittings! Douglas, look! I-I think this might actually be marble!"

And yet, in spite of all of his exclamations, Martin had turned down every single one. So, the subject was dropped and they visited fewer flats until they were visiting none at all. It wasn't until a long stand-by turned into the whole crew just sitting around with nothing to do that Martin brought it up again.

"I-I really think we need to widen our net a bit," Martin said as he tapped the top of his pen on a pile of paperwork that had been done twice already. He was behind his desk, as he nearly always was, but had given in to the sluggishness that had seized them all and shirked his jacket in favour of rolled up shirt-sleeves. "W-we need to make a decision before my next rent is due."

Douglas sighed and turned off his phone, watching the virtual newspaper slide away, then looked across the room from the dingy porta-cabin sofa.

"We've looked at hundreds of flats and you've turned down every one," he said.

"That's because you didn't seem to be with me," Martin replied.

Douglas rolled his eyes.

"Martin, I know that your head is buried high, high in the clouds, but it can't be so high that you failed to notice me accompanying you to every single property we viewed."

"You know what I mean," Martin retorted. "You didn't seem very keen."

"I said yes to all of them."

"You said '_Sure, fine, whatever you want. I'm sure the smell of cockroaches is just a pleasing aesthetic.'_" Martin drawled, putting on a poor approximation of Douglas' voice that nonetheless tickled him. "That's not a yes. I couldn't even smell anything."

"Well then we just keep looking," Douglas remarked. "You've never been one to give up."

At this, Martin abandoned his desk and crossed the room to drop down beside Douglas. The cushions tipped under him but he sat up straight, chin tipped up and he pouted, and fixed Douglas with his utmost attempt at authority. It earned him a raised eyebrow, but no wry comment.

"Douglas, I know you're not telling me something. You've been doing that… th-that quiet thing that you do, you know-"

"Being quiet?"

"Yes, being quiet," Martin said as he leaned in close and held his head high. "Now, I didn't want to do this, b-but I am ordering you, as your captain, to tell me what's wrong with all the flats that we've been viewing."

A sharp retort pricked at the tip of Douglas' tongue, but he swallowed it. The flicker of indignation was forcibly stifled as he knew that Martin was the king of that particular round table and could take prissy indignation to a fiery pinnacle if challenged. Instead, he chose evasion, knowing that it would wind Martin up, but not enough to start an argument in the porta-cabin, whilst Carolyn was just next-door tutoring Arthur on another aspect of stewarding that he had improvised.

"You can't pull rank over matters of the home and hearth," Douglas said, blithely, biting back the urge to cut rather than prod as he stared into Martin's blue-eyed, flushed-cheeked face. "You told me quite clearly that I wasn't to call you Captain at home."

"I said in the bedroom!" Martin hissed in a stage-whisper, turning even more red than before. "Please, just tell me."

"Fine. I don't like them," Douglas admitted, heart clenching as he waited for the resignation to cloud Martin's expression. "I don't want to live in a flat. I want a house – a proper house, with a lovely exterior and a quaint little set of rooms and a garden that we can dig up and sit in and enjoy in the summer because frankly I think that it would be charming."

It came out a bit quick, but Douglas was sure that he had managed at least 43% nonchalance – enough to keep his pride airborne, at least.

Except, Martin didn't look upset, or shocked. He nose was scrunched and he was dragging his lip through his teeth and he looked for all the world as if he was deep in thought, staring at Douglas all the while.

Then he came back to himself with a small, almost shy smile; just a twitch at the corners of his lips that nonetheless lit up his face. It made something in Douglas' chest rise and warm.

"That's…th-that's actually quite sweet."

"I'm not sweet."

"Oh, you are though, you sod," Martin muttered, shaking his head as he slouched against the sofa, tilting until he was resting against Douglas' side. Then he folded his arms and blinked up at the ceiling with a dreamy look on his face. "God, it's been ages since I had a garden."

Douglas hummed his acknowledgment, partly to make up for his lack of composure only moments before, and partly because he couldn't think of anything to say that wasn't gooey and ever so slightly needy.

"That sounds really nice actually." Martin was still musing to himself. He turned his head so that it rested on Douglas' shoulder and smiled up at him, face still scrunched in the way that it did when he thought that he was thinking too hard. "W-we should do that – g-get a proper house with a garden that is. You know what, we will. I-I'll start keeping an eye out."

Instead of answering, Douglas beamed as best as he could whilst feeling somewhat embarrassed, even though Martin had no idea that he had anything to feel embarrassed about, and tilted his head down. Martin took advantage of the motion and pecked his lips, then returned to his monologue, imagining problems and then discarding them as he constructed exactly the sort of white-picket house that Douglas had been imagining.


	6. Chapter 6

**Martin/Douglas AU**

"What do you mean the taxi isn't coming?"

Douglas pinned his phone between his shoulder and his ear as he wrapped his scarf around his neck and buttoned his coat over the jacket, jumper, and fleece that he was wearing to fend off the cold. As he did so, he stared out of the window at the thin layer of icy sludge that covered everything from his lawn to the shingles on the neighbour's house.

"_I don't know how much more explicit I can be," _Carolyn replied, as curt as ever. There was a brittle edge to her voice that promised a flight filled with coughs and sniffles and an Arthur that was no doubt filled with energy despite requiring bed-rest. "_The driver called me this morning and cancelled because of the snow."_

"Snow?" Douglas retorted. "It's not _snowy_ – a mild sleet at most."

_"__It's enough to shut down the bus route."_

"Oh, I _see_. So it's too dangerous for the buses and the taxi drivers, but good old jet pilots like myself are perfectly safe," Douglas drawled as he yanked the curtains shut. "It's not as if I have to steer a plane down a hundred metre ice-rink faster than any bus could travel – without, I might add, a co-pilot."

_"__Yes, yes, it's a terrible tragedy. We've all been hit very hard,"_ Carolyn sighed. "_Look, Douglas. I don't care how you get here, just make sure that you are _here_. If you're _very_ good, I might even consider letting you see the tip that Ms Goode is giving us for coming out in such abominable weather._"

"Fine, I suppose," Douglas replied. "Give me an hour."

"_You only live twenty minutes away-"_

"And yet I require an hour," Douglas said. "Bye."

He hung up before Carolyn could say another word and buried his phone in his inner-most pocket, beneath layers and layers of fabric. Consigning himself to a miserable hike to the airfield, he crossed the room to his wardrobe and weighed up the benefits of a woolly hat against the relative ease of wearing his pilot's hat, purely for the sake of carrying less.

In the end, he went for the pilot's hat, even though it would leave his ears vulnerable to the chill. Then he stuffed his hands into the mittens that his oldest daughter had knitted him, even though they made him feel like a three-year-old, and headed out the door.

Fitton in the snow was, in a word, dull. There was a crisp bite in the air and a prickle on the wind that cut through his many layers, it seemed, out of sheer spite. What might once have been a winter wonderland had been stomped down in places and reduced to a grey soup, Douglas actually found himself being battered by the wind as it pummelled him, whistling in his ears.

As he cursed their latest client, Douglas noted that at least one person had been brave enough to face the weather. There was a van parked at the end of the street, back doors wide open with a chest of drawers leaning against the interior. He wished the poor soul well.

It wasn't until Douglas was at the other end of the street, long past the van, that the wind picked up, actually pushing him off course. With one tremendous gust, his hat was torn from his head and his shout was lost in the vicious howl that took it. He watched it twirl like a rabid bat for only a moment, fingers closing around harsh, empty air, before it was out of sight.

"Ow!"

Douglas whirled towards the source of the shout, already moving towards it as he chased his hat. He wasn't one to startle, but he did slow as he was met with the sight of a man whose face was as red as his hair, bundled in an envious amount of coats, arms flailing as he spluttered and clutched at the hat that appeared to have smacked him in the face.

On closer inspection, Douglas realised that the man must have been the owner of the van, the keys for which now lay in a damp spot in the snow.

"I'm ever so sorry," Douglas said in lieu of an introduction. "You appear to have inadvertently rescued my hat."

"Wh-what?" the man spluttered. He blinked as if seeing Douglas for the first time, then glanced down at the hat and jumped, gripping the rim more tightly. "O-oh, yes – sorry about that."

"No need to apologise," Douglas assured him. "I should be asking you how your face is holding up."

"M-my face?" the man replied, eyebrows rising as he shifted on his feet, looking Douglas up and down. "My face is fine, really. Nothing to worry about – i-it was just a bit of a shock, that's all."

"You're sure?" Douglas asked. "You made quite an _ow_."

The man seemed to puff up with indignation, even as he shivered, and he turned the hat over his in his hands. In spite of the hurry he was in and the horrid cold, Douglas couldn't help the flicker of amusement that had his lips twitching.

"I-I'm fine, _really_," the man said. He tipped up his chin. "I-it's nothing I can't handle."

"Oh, well, in that case." Douglas reached out a hand to take back the hat, but the man offered his own hand instead, so Douglas shook of the momentary mental hitch and shook his hand, plastering on a charming smile that didn't quite meet his mood so early in the morning. "Douglas Richardson."

"Martin Crieff, h-hello," the man replied, still gripping his hand. Then he seemed to realise his mistake and if possible, his cheeks grew even redder. "O-oh, sorry. You wanted your hat." As Douglas nodded, he thrust the item back into his grasp, pausing for only a moment, expression brightening in the split-second that he relinquished it. "Y-you're a pilot?"

Douglas took a moment to secure the hat on his head, taking great pleasure from the protection it provided from the wind.

"Yes."

"I-I only ask because _I_'_m_ a pilot."

"_Really_?"

Douglas glanced between Martin Crieff and the van, which was still suffering from a severe case of having a chest of drawers poking out of its rear.

Martin side-stepped so that he was between Douglas and the van, hands lacing together.

"Y-yes, really. I-I _am_ a pilot," he insisted.

There was an edge of pride, slightly caustic as if waiting for a challenge, which caught Douglas' already vulnerable attention. He was just uncomfortable and wrong-footed enough to be drawn in by the man's stammering, the faint guilt over maiming the man with his hat keeping him in place despite the risk of turning into an actual block of ice.

"I-I mean, I'm a man with a van, obviously, b-but I'm a pilot as well," Martin continued, growing more flushed with each syllable. "I-I've got a licence, and a job, s-so – that's why I brought it up, y-you know, a-as a conversation started, a-and I realise now that you're probably going somewhere important, b-but I-"

"Martin," Douglas interrupted, and Martin fell silent immediately. Douglas cleared his throat and buried his hands in his pockets, turning his back on the path that he was supposed to be heading down. "Am I right in thinking that I'm forgiven for hitting you in the face?"

Martin's eyes widened.

"Oh, y-yes, of course."

"Good. Thank you."

"I-it's really no problem," Martin said as he rubbed a hand over the back of his neck. "R-really, I-I'm sorry for keeping you so long. I-it's just it's been a while since I've met a pilot I don't work with, a-and they're all washed-up and boring, a-and I just carried away, I suppose, s-sorry-"

"There's no need to be sorry," Douglas cut him off again, ducking his head ever so slightly so that Martin couldn't see his slight smirk, the only outward sign of the odd warmth that had flickered into life in his chest. "I _am_ rather interesting, even if I say so myself."

"Sure," Martin snorted. He shook his head and moved as if to return to his van, but when he saw Douglas' involuntary step towards him, following without thought to continue the conversation, he stopped. "R-really… it didn't hurt that much. I'm sure you can make it up to me," he joked – then he seemed to realise that he was joking and raised his hands in hasty surrender. "N-not that you have to make it up to me."

As he pursed his lips, Douglas was forced to admit that he was charmed. Granted, the man was a mess, but he was already a more interesting way to pass the time than a plane full of flu-ridden steward and CEO.

"No, no, no, don't be like that," Douglas drawled. "It was clumsy of me. I'm sure there's something I can do." He looked again to the van, even as Martin stammered that he didn't need anything. "Do you need a hand with the chest of drawers?"

"No, really," Martin said, doing a marvellous job of blending gratitude with stubbornness as he blocked the path to the van. "That's nice of you, b-but I can handle it."

"It looks like a two man job to me."

"W-well it's not."

"Are you sure?" Douglas inquired, arching an eyebrow. "I thought you wanted to talk about flying."

"That's not what I said," Martin retorted. "I-I actually just said you were a pilot-"

"We _could_ talk about flying," Douglas suggested. Martin paused and his eyes widened as his lips formed a small 'oh'. "One pilot to another."

"W-well, I suppose we could," Martin said, and the bashful sort of smile that he had worn at first returned, bolstered by a fraction more confidence. "B-but you don't have to help with the van. Y-you could just… y-you don't have to help. Really, I don't mind about that hat."

Douglas snorted, but moved past Martin to inspect the chest of drawers and the sorry state of the van.

"If you say so," he said. "You know, my boss is looking for another pilot. If you impress me, I might even offer to hand over a CV."

The hungry expression that flashed across Martin's face was enough to convince Douglas that this was most definitely worth turning up late to work. This was quickly followed by red-cheeked embarrassment and a barrage of bluster as Martin made a show of getting back to work, cementing the fond flickers that were lighting up in Douglas' chest.


	7. Chapter 7

**Alright, here it is. I found the correct chapter - phew. I'd lost it in amongst all the Marlas drabbles.**

**I'm glad WikketKrikket pointed out to me that I'd repeated _another_ chapter, because I really hadn't noticed, and it would be a shame to miss out on this other brilliant couple. (This was wriitten before Zurich, so things are off but still good I hope)**

* * *

For once in his life, Martin felt like everything was at peace.

MJN had been a high. Meeting Theresa had been a high. Struggling to decide whether he should move to Switzerland and be with her, abandoning the three people that had effectively become his family and leaving them bankrupt, or sticking with MJN and losing out on the chance for love… that had been a low.

More than a low, it had wrought havoc.

However, if there was one thing that Martin Crieff was good at, it was hard work. So he turned down the offer from Swiss Air, stayed with MJN, and put as much effort as he could into maintaining a long-distance relationship. And somehow… it worked. For once in his life, everyone that he knew, his friends, his family, his girlfriend, all of them were reasonable and accepted the fact that he was pulled in more directions than he could count.

And now, Martin was buckling down and pulling all the strings together.

Theresa was a busy woman, running a small country and all, and that would always come first. Martin was a busy man, jetting around the world, and he was never going to give that up. It balanced out nicely. Sure, they didn't see each other every day, sometimes not for weeks, but when they _were_ together, things were almost perfect.

So Martin proposed, and Theresa said yes, and it was as simple as that. Being happy had never been simpler. That he floundered and flustered didn't matter, because she was so down to earth and patient that somehow she managed to keep everything afloat, keep him calm, and keep him hopeful.

All that was left to do was make sure that the other most important part of his life wasn't floating away.

MJN would always be there, so would GERTI, if it was the last thing he ever did. Carolyn and Arthur were supportive whatever he did, and he loved them for it. The only person that still seemed to be drifting was Douglas.

Douglas, Martin's best friend even if he did want to strangle him every other Thursday, who had been oddly morose since well before Martin had even applied for a job at Swiss Air. Who had been so eager for Martin to go and be happy and had been thrilled to see him finally catch a break, at work and in his love life, and yet had fallen peculiarly silent in regards to his own life. He barely even showed off anymore. When he did something annoying, instead of boasting or hinting, he pretended nothing had happened.

Martin recalled a time so long ago, when he had refused to admit that he was the one who had ironed bacon into his shirt, even if it was an accident. The Douglas of a few months earlier would have poked and prodded until Martin had noticed.

It didn't take long to work out what was going on. Douglas was reaching retirement age, he was at risk of losing his job, the man that he spent almost every day with was ready to leave at any moment… Douglas was setting himself adrift before they could cut him loose.

Martin wasn't having that.

Early Monday morning, Martin stood on the steps of Douglas' house, waiting for him to open the door. When Douglas opened the door, it was with a raised eyebrow and a flicker of surprise that he was perhaps a tad too tired to hide. Martin noted that while he was in uniform, he was bereft of shoes or a jacket, with a cup of coffee in hand, and he looked like he planned on slouching about the house for hours yet.

"Martin," Douglas greeted him as he stepped aside to allow him entry. "Are you running the taxi service today? I wasn't informed."

"No, I-I'm not. You still have to drive yourself… o-or actually, as I'm here, it might be easier if I just drove you in...b-but that's not what I'm here for," Martin replied, taking a deep breath. He didn't want to survey the room, or get drawn into a conversation. He was on a mission and wouldn't be side-tracked…again. "I-I wanted to talk to you. It's important."

At this, Douglas nodded slowly and placed his coffee down, his movements transmitting concern in the soft, cautious way that they sometimes did.

"What is it? What's wrong?"

The last time Martin had been desperate to talk, he had been fretting over his brother's stupid moustache. In retrospect, this was far more important, but far less worrying.

"N-nothing's wrong, I just, I-I just…" Martin stammered as he gathered up his nerve. When he spoke, he couldn't quite stop the fizzle of light in his chest from simmering into a smile. "I'm getting married. I-I-I proposed, a-and Theresa said yes, a-and we're getting married."

There was a split second where Douglas' expression dropped – but the next he was beaming, and bridged the space between them to clap Martin on the back. It was the closest to a hug they had ever got, and Martin clumsily tried to prolong it, just for a moment, but wasn't quite successful as Douglas disengaged.

"That's wonderful, Martin. Congratulations!" Douglas said. The smile didn't fade but Martin swore that his eyes watered ever so slightly as for once, he actually seemed to lose the thread of what he was saying and start to ramble. "I knew you could do it," The warmth spread through him and Martin's own eyes burned. Almost as an afterthought, Douglas added. "I'm proud of you."

Martin nodded quickly and choked as he sniffed and composed himself. He dutifully ignored the fingers that pinched at the bridge of Douglas' nose and barrelled on before he could lose his nerve.

"I need you to be best man."

Douglas paused, glanced down at his hands, and then the slightly stiff swagger returned.

"Well, if you're sure you want-"

"N-no, I don't want you to be, I _need_ you to be my best man," Martin corrected. He wished he had his hat to grasp and turn in his hands, but he had left it in the van. This wasn't a conversation he wanted to have as Captain…just as Martin. "Y-you're my best friend, a-and I wouldn't be where I am today without you, e-even if that's just because you were so difficult that I had to get better… no, n-no, that's not it. You helped so much, a-and I… I just really need you to stick around, a-and to be a part of this – o-of the wedding, a-and of helping me along, just…j-just so that-"

"Of course," Douglas cut him off, raising a hand to silence him. Martin waited with bated breath as Douglas nodded solemnly and inhaled slowly, as if he was the one having trouble balancing all the happy with the need to bring everyone together. Perhaps he was simply overwhelmed, but Martin had never seen him overwhelmed, so didn't dare hope. "Of course I'll be your best man. Can't have Captain Mishap planning his own wedding… lord knows what would happen."

He trailed off as if he knew that it was weak.

Martin didn't care. He grinned and didn't wait for Douglas to get over his surprise before he pulled him into a proper hug – a manly, Captainly, perfectly wedding-jitters worthy hug. There were most definitely not tears in his eyes. Or sniffles in his nose.


	8. Chapter 8

**A tumblr drabble for Madnina which I posted a few days ago but forgot to add here. Unlike the others, this is Skipthur, Martin/Arthur, a pairing that I've never written for. Hopefully it goes down well. *fingers crossed*.**

**I hope you enjoy.**

**~A Date~**

Martin had barely walked through the door before Arthur cornered him.

To be more precise, he had walked through the door, crossed the porta-cabin, and headed straight for the kettle. It was a quiet day at the airfield. Douglas was off striking up some deal with one of the grounds staff, Carolyn was on the phone with one of their snottier clients, and Arthur... well, Arthur, as he so often did, appeared as if from nowhere.

He had a shrewd look about him that never boded well, but, Martin had often observed, could bring with it a rare glimpse of insight. It was the look of an Arthur that wasn't trying so hard to please everyone, but was at ease and contemplating whatever was pertinent to the moment. Although distracted by the liquid that had sloshed over his hand, thankfully still just a dab of milk and sugar for Douglas to go with his own black coffee grains, Martin recognised that look.

He recalled fondly the day they had been stuck in Johannesburg in a worn-down baggage truck. Arthur had been as 'helpful' as ever, but without the pressure of his mother and Douglas to impress he had also been quiet and thoughtful, and had sent Martin's ego sky rocketing.

They made quite the team – understated, perhaps, but they got things done... eventually.

"Skip?"

"Yes, Arthur?" Martin replied as he dabbed his hand clean and placed the mugs safely on the counter. He turned to give Arthur his full attention, partly because it was the right thing to do as Captain, mostly because without a client on their doorstep, he was bored out of his mind.

Arthur stood before him, fiddling with his sleeves where they were pushed up to his elbows.

"It's nothing really," he said. "I just have a bit of a hypocritical question."

"A hypo – hypothetical, you mean?"

"Oh, yes, that one," Arthur amended with a dismissive wave of his hand. "It's about dates."

"D-dates?" Martin repeated. A nervous smile played about his lips as heat rose to his cheeks and he fiddled with the kettle where it lay behind him. The worst thing was he _wasn't_ nervous – it was his usual damned awkwardness making things even more awkward. "I-I'm not sure I'm the one you should be asking. Aren't you ah – aren't you normally a hit with those girls from the pony club?"

"Normally, yeah, but _they_ ask _me_," Arthur said. "I've never really had to do it the other way – which is nice, really."

"Hmm, yes... it must be," Martin agreed. His embarrassment waned quickly, and he managed a deep breath as he relaxed. "What about Douglas?"

"I could ask him, but I thought I'd ask you first seeing as how you'll probably know the answer," Arthur explained. He shrugged and shuffled his feet. "See, I want to ask this person on a date-"

"Does she have anything in common with you?"

"He's a he – but yeah, loads I reckon," Arthur replied brightly. "We wanted to be the same thing when we were little, and we get along great."

"Oh, well then... you should just go for it," Martin said. He fought off the urge to fiddle and folded his hands in front of him, giving the matter his full attention. In spite of himself, he couldn't help but inwardly preen at being the one that Arthur had come to; it was a sign of trust, and a sign that he was doing well as a senior officer, even if he wasn't entirely sure how to answer adequately. "Something low stakes though – don't push too hard, o-or too little. Push just the right amount – a-and be yourself."

"I don't know who else I'd be."

"Exactly," Martin continued. "Just be confident, a-and yourself – which already is _very_ confident- and ask whoever he may be out for... I don't know... whatever it is you do on dates. I mean... are you sure that it's me you want to be asking?"

"Well, yeah," Arthur said. "It's you I want to ask on a date." Oblivious to the sudden drop in Martin's subconscious, or his inarticulate stammer, Arthur ploughed onwards. "I thought, 'cos it's you, you'd know how to ask you out on a date – because it's you. It makes sense really."

"R-really?" Martin stammered.

"Yep," Arthur replied. " 'Cos I thought about asking you out for coffee, but we drink coffee all the time and I thought maybe you wouldn't know what I was actually asking."

"N-no, I wouldn't have known..."

"See, so it was a good idea, asking you, really."

Unable to muster any kind of a response, Martin simply nodded, struck by a dizzy sort of confusion that brought a certain lightness to his chest. He wasn't only flattered – and he was _very_ flattered, and stunned, and suddenly conscious of all the creases in his uniform and itching to smooth them down – he was suddenly feeling an excited kind of pull at the prospect of accepting.

"So, um... I'm confused – are you, um... a-are you asking me out on a date?"

"Well not yet – but I can be, if you like," Arthur replied, face lighting up with the idea. He wrung his hands together and rocked on his heels, as he always did when eager to do _something_, whatever it was.

"I um... I'd like that," Martin said. He nodded to himself, then to Arthur, and a smile split his cheeks without him having to tell it to. Awkwardly clearing his throat, he reached behind him for a third mug, lifting it up for Arthur to see. Arthur grinned and nodded, not distracted for a second, and Martin was forced to steady himself. "Yes, Arthur," he said. "I'd like that very much – a date, that is."

"Brilliant," Arthur announced. He clapped his hands together, business-like and eerily reminiscent of his mother. He was already half way across the porta-cabin as he continued. "I'll come back when I've thought of something to do that isn't coffee."


	9. Chapter 9

The last dregs of the night haven't quite faded. The sky is still a dark enough shade of washed out purple that the tittering of birds in the neighbours' trees hasn't started yet. Any later in the morning and the sound would have risen up like strings in the advent of a symphony. Douglas is already awake though, sluggish and coughing to clear his throat of the final lumps of exhaustion, rubbing curled fists against the faint sting behind his eyes. Still, he is alert enough to waft through the flat and illuminate the kitchen with the first stirrings of the day.

He can no longer hear birdsong over the bubbling of the kettle at his elbow. He leans back against the counter, using the sharp edge as a deterrent against drifting off again.

A low rumbling emanates from the adjoined lounge. It is a joyous sound despite the roughness of it – in and out, mapping the course of his companion's slumber. Douglas has to strain to hear it – the wind whistles through the cracks in the window frame, which he cannot close properly as the latch broke months before. Perhaps if he asks nicely, and promises to let his companion win their next word game, Martin will offer to fix that for him.

Douglas knows that Martin hates it when he's reminded of how better suited he is to the fiddly manual tasks that _he_ can't seem to figure out than the career of his dreams – not that he's a _bad_ pilot. He's never been _bad_. In fact, the longer he sticks to it, the better he gets. Douglas is also well aware of how much Martin preens when he thinks that he's impressed him, or performed a task that he could never do himself.

They are both competitive. It matters more to Martin than it should. For Martin's sake, Douglas had learned to step back and lose if the occasion requires it of him.

The rumbling from the lounge ceases abruptly, and the whistling returns just as the kettle clicks and a flawed silence falls. Martin's awake now, and Douglas can't help but smile at the ingrained sense of punctuality that seems to resonate throughout his being even when he tumbles into the cosy recesses of slumber.

The heat that ripples through his hands as he wraps his palms around the mug of coffee incites a lurching desire to simply forget that they have to work at an early hour. He longs instead to shuffle back to the sofa and flop down beside Martin, wrapping his arms around his torso while he feels the solidity of arms sling clumsily around his back. If he conveniently forgot to take him his coffee, a treat that Martin hadn't yet stopped thanking him for, Martin might even remain in such an addled haze that the memory of a career slipped from his mind.

That isn't an option, Douglas muses as he extends his arms and rolls his sleeves up to his elbows, relishing the clack and click as he stretches out his shoulders, and then takes both mugs in hand. Martin loved his job more than anything else, with such a primly pedantic flare that Douglas couldn't help but be swept along by his fervour, a smirk on his lips and the gentle impulse to roll his eyes always lingering near the back of his mind.

Upon entering the lounge, the whistling fades into nothingness, and the dim glow of the kitchen is replaced by the slim, sharp light of Martin's phone as he peers through fogged eyes at the screen. He's probably trying to decipher why he had been allowed to doze on the sofa while he pushes a hand through his coppery hair and bites down on his bottom lip. Content to let him greet him with a smile that soothes the freckles lines on his face more than any amount of lecturing about proper procedure in the workplace, Douglas slides a hand over Martin's knee as Martin shifts his legs to allow him room. Martin slouches down against the cushions, placing his mug on the coffee table just a few feet away, and Douglas rests against him.

Despite all of their not-always-light-hearted bickering, the sort that had Martin's cheeks flaring scarlet with indignation and Douglas' tongue sharpening to a well-practiced point, this is Douglas' favourite part of their relationship.

This is the part that as friends they had shied away from, indulging only when propriety waned under the pale clouds of exhaustion and boredom. In the first trickles of a relationship, where letting Martin doze on the sofa is one of Douglas' subtle ways of ensuring that he is still there for breakfast, nothing is more pleasant than getting to rest his cheek against the stiff polyester of Martin's shirt. He had pressed it specially for work the previous day. Morning is the only time of day in which Douglas' mind is still filled with fluff, and his longing for affection is close to the surface.

All he had to do was wait for Martin to blink into complete awareness.

In half an hour, buoyed by caffeine, Martin will be hurrying him along, nattering in his ear about the importance of being on time and filling out his paperwork. For now there's something beautiful about sharing his laziness with him and feeling him sit up beside him until their heads are mere inches from each other.

That will have to wait though. For now, Martin's back has found the cushions and his arm is winding around his like a vine. His fingers wriggle to find purchase against his and Martin's chin is tipped back as he strains to hear the clattering from outside. It is careless affection, tender but nowhere near distracting enough to keep Martin from being distracted by the sounds from outside.

The rest of the world is waking too.

Douglas glances up and out of the front window, which from this angle displays only the steadily paling expanse of sky and wisps of cloud. Martin notes with a certain familiarity the sounds that he doesn't yet know, but will in time.

The juddering of an engine like a hacking cough intensifies, rising in pitch as it passes the window. Then, as it does every other morning, it cuts off, and the car that Douglas has seen pootling down the road at all hours of the night falls silent. He's not the only one on the street that works odd hours.

Martin blinks at him, blue eyes misty with bewilderment, and he can only smirk and shrug his shoulders. Later in the day, after he has bothered him about it at regular intervals, he will probably invent some fictitious explanation, or better yet, turn it into a game.

Martin isn't one for conversation in the mornings. He is bright eyed, but communicates mostly in grunts. He can be ready to fly a plane in ten minutes, but once Douglas accidentally rolled him onto the floor in an attempt to rouse him from his log-like sleep. Douglas is sluggish before ten am, but he could talk for hours. He does talk, as they eat, and dress, and brush their teeth – to Martin's annoyance – about the many things that could go wrong – or wonderfully right – during their upcoming ten-hour flight.

Whatever happens, it is sure to be exciting. It always is, in a way. However the best moments, in Douglas' opinion, are the ones in which nothing happens, in the transitory minutes between sleep and waking.


	10. Chapter 10

Restless anticipation wasn't something that Douglas was used to – not since he was young. Nevertheless, standing in the airport out of uniform, waiting for the flight from Zurich to come in, it took all of his power not to fidget. His hands were tightly clenched in his pockets and he rocked on his heels.

For a moment, that morning, he had considered buying flowers – but that would have been too strange. He and Martin had known each other for years. They _knew_ that there was something between them – a bond built on trust and a sense of humour – and they didn't need flowers to prove that. Flowers were a declaration. There was nothing to declare that they hadn't already shared via sideways glances and long flights. Never out loud... not until a week ago, and then there had been nothing.

It was almost a relief that Arthur had caught wind of the few days that Martin was spending in England. By agreeing to meet Martin at the airport with Douglas, the lad had saved Douglas from the awkwardness that he had created. There was a storm coming, and only Arthur's relentless sunshine could keep it at bay.

It had only been a simple video call – once a fortnight they spoke face to face, Fitton to Zurich, to make up for the other days of the week when they had to settle for texts and brief phone calls.

They had been saying goodbye. Martin had said that he was visiting – coming back for the first time.

"I can't wait to see you," he had said. He had meant everyone – all of OJS Air.

Douglas felt it more keenly.

"I _have_ missed you, Martin," he had replied. Martin's movements had stilled and his eyes were fixed on the screen, just below the camera. The fact that it was harder to look him dead in the eye made it easier for Douglas to loosen his tongue. "I really... truly have."

A soft sort of smile had tugged at Martin's lips as his cheeks grew steadily redder.

"Oh, w-well... I've missed you too."

"I mean it, Martin. I've missed you so much that I..." Douglas trailed off as Martin's eyes flitted up to the camera, and then down again. "Never mind. I'll see you soon. Goodbye."

With that, Douglas had cut the connection. Nothing had been admitted and yet he felt bare and vulnerable.

The feeling only grew when he saw Martin appear at the gate, dressed in a uniform far smarter than any Carolyn had supplied and dragging a suitcase behind him. While Arthur hurried over to meet him, pulling the man into a bone-crushing hug, Douglas hung back.

Once he was nearer, Martin caught Douglas' eye. They shared quick greetings – Martin even pulled Douglas into a one armed embrace. Then they kept their distance, glancing at one another in the silences when Arthur paused for breath. Martin had that look about him – the one that meant he was holding something in, biting his lip and refraining from setting Douglas to rights.

A storm was coming, and Douglas could only play along until they were allowed a moment alone together.

The moment came after Martin had visited his mother and his siblings, during the impromptu celebration that Carolyn had graciously allowed in the porta-cabin. Douglas ducked outside for a breath of fresh air and a break from Herc's singing, and Martin followed. For the first time in years, Douglas felt positively skittish.

They stood huddled together in the dark, illuminated only by the light from the porta-cabin window. With the cold pressing in, they lingered close enough that their arms pressed together. Every minute that passed, Douglas expected a clap of thunder as Martin let loose his disapproval – or his confusion. He had said nothing incriminating, and yet Douglas was sure that Martin, who knew all of his most fragile secrets, had seen through his nonchalance.

"Douglas... are you alright?"

"Of course I'm alright," Douglas replied. He watched Martin from the corner of his eye. "I've never been better. Why do you ask?"

"No reason. I-it's just you seem..." Martin paused and pushed a hand through his hair. "You seemed upset, before – th-the last time we spoke. A-and I couldn't work out why you might be upset – a-actually I could... a-and today..."

"You're free to start again," Douglas drawled.

This time, he turned to face Martin properly. It earned him a wobbly smile as Martin folded his arms and leant back against the porta-cabin. Martin nodded solemnly, and took a deep breath. Douglas braced himself.

"It's been weird without you," Martin said. "N-not just on the flight-deck. I-I miss seeing you most days, or... or being able to call you up and get help with a job, o-or try out new restaurants in foreign countries."

"I'll admit, Herc isn't nearly as entertaining a companion as you," Douglas agreed, holding his breath.

"A-and I, um... well, you know, I've missed you," Martin continued. "I really, really have. Just the things that you say and... a-and sharing things with you. I miss having fun together. I mean, I know we have a laugh on the phone, but... but last time."

"Martin, forget last time-"

"No, I won't," Martin insisted. "You seemed upset – a-and there was no need to, because... because I said I missed you too and I couldn't wait to see you and that should have been a good thing."

"It is. You're here now. I'm glad," Douglas replied, voice taut.

Martin nodded as if to himself.

"Me too."

For a while, neither said anything. They were as close as they had once been in the flight-deck, and yet the space seemed further. It was Martin that broke the silence. He turned so that he too was facing Douglas, leaving a foot of air between them at most.

"You know, Douglas... before I left, it... i-it always felt like something was coming," he said. "Like a storm brewing."

"Hmm, very poetic."

"No, shut up, Douglas," Martin muttered, without any heat. "Like... like something was going to happen and then it... it just didn't. Then I left, a-and it was the right thing to do, for me - for my career." Martin paused and Douglas nodded, agreeing. Martin flushed and ducked his head, then returned to look him in the eye. "B-but sometimes I feel like... like just because I left MJN and I left GERTI... that shouldn't mean that I left _everything_. I-I mean, my career isn't my _whole_ life."

"It isn't?"

"Do you have to interrupt me?"

"Martin, think about how long we've known each other and ask that again."

Instead of speaking again, Martin scowled and shook his head. The smile never left his eyes though. It was a familiar sort of exasperation that set Douglas' nerves at ease. Then Martin bridged the space between them and Douglas was pulled into a kiss. The kiss was hard and wet – Martin tripped slightly and Douglas found himself pressed against him with their arms around one another as he pressed back. And then Martin was gone – only inches away with his hands on Douglas' cheeks, but showing no sign of returning just yet.

"Well..."

"Is that what you were so worried about?" Martin asked, brow furrowing as he stepped back.

Douglas wasn't quite sure what to say, so he gave in and pulled Martin into another kiss.


	11. Chapter 11

**Planning**

This was the hardest conflict they had ever endured, Douglas thought. In all the years that they had been friends, and all the while that they had been romantically entangled, they had never been so close at each other's throats – not when chasing bears or calling a mayday over something fickle and changeable. Douglas had assumed that he and Martin were on the same page when he proposed that they used their week of MJN-free time for a holiday. He had been wrong.

Douglas wanted to visit the places that he knew. In all of his years as a Captain, and then a First Officer, he had learnt the maps of the world with the finesse of a man who had walked their streets without need for guidance. He knew the most romantic views and the restaurants most likely to raise his partner's spirits. He was a creature of habit – he had garnered a particular fondness for each and every glittering city and cosy little village.

Martin, on the other hand, wanted nothing to do with any of the countries that they had flown to. That he hadn't seen much more than the airfields didn't seem to matter to him. If they had landed there, Martin didn't want to go.

"We should go somewhere _new_," he exclaimed as they paced circles around one another, going about their evening rituals with a practiced ease. "I-if all we're going to do is spend time in the same places we work, we might as well set up camp in GERTI – and no, don't suggest that."

"The important thing is that we spend time _together_," Douglas countered. He paused long enough to run a hand along Martin's arm as he headed towards the bathroom, following him as far as the hall so that his voice could be heard. "Lights, music, beautiful fresh air-"

"Exactly, that's what I mean," Martin murmured around his toothbrush.

"_Martin-_"

"Douglas!"

"Correct me if I'm wrong, but I'm _sure_ I fell in love with a man who loves aircraft more than he loves me," Douglas drawled, leaning against the doorframe. Martin caught his eye in the mirror but his mouth was too full of foam to speak. Douglas took advantage and ploughed onwards. "Now, I'm not saying we pitch a tent on one of the runways that are still proudly displaying GERTI's tyre tracks, but I _have_ spent quite a long time waiting to get a week alone with you – a long time in which I imagined some of the wonderful hidey holes I've discovered on my travels. I thought you'd be thrilled."

"I don't like mixing work with my private life," Martin replied. "You know that."

"You're sleeping with your First Officer."

"A-all the more reason to get away from it all," Martin insisted. Towelling his hands dry, making a point of folding the towel over the rack above the bath, Martin turned back towards him, hands on his hips. "A-and I... there's more to me than the job."

"_Is_ there?"

"Y-yes, there is," Martin shot back, cheeks flushing. "I don't want you thinking all I care about is..."

Martin's expression fell as the fight left him. His shoulders sagged and he let out a long sigh. The sound of it hit Douglas deeper than the sight, and he dropped the stiffness from his stance. He closed the space between them and pulled Martin closer by the hem of his pyjama top, trailing his fingertips along the material.

"If it's your priorities that you're worried about, I _know_ where you stand. I _know_ that you care, Martin. We _can_ work and _play_ in the same locations without everything falling apart. Have a little faith," Douglas said. He caught Martin's sheepish frown and lowered his gaze to the dip of his throat to give him a moment's privacy with his own thoughts. "If you're worried that I'm going to make fun of you... I will. But I won't be upset if, _say_... we were to revisit that charming little airport we were in last month, and you paid more attention to the planes than the beach."

"Really?"

"We could watch the planes _from_ the beach," Douglas suggested.

Douglas knew that he had won when he felt Martin sway against him. Strong fingers curled gently around the tender flesh of Douglas' elbows as he linked their arms. When Douglas looked Martin in the face again, the corner of his lips were pinched, but he was smiling faintly and nodding.

"I-I suppose if you can find somewhere really... _really_ romantic, w-with decent restaurants and some long walks – maybe some tourist attractions as we're normally stuck between the airports and the hotels-"

"Anything else, Sir?"

"Yes, alright, Douglas," Martin sighed. His thumbs rubbed circles in Douglas' arms and Douglas _felt_ the moment he gave in completely. "Alright. F-fine. B-but when we get stopped by every smuggling security officer and whoever else your friends with, don't come crying to me about ruining the mood."

"I wouldn't dream of it," Douglas snorted. With that, he pressed a kiss to Martin's lips and grimaced at the too sweet tang of Martin's minty freshness. He stayed still long enough for Martin to take his cheeks in hand and kiss him more thoroughly, before ducking out of reach and out of the bathroom, heading back towards the bedroom. "I'll have a look at the booking site shall I? Back to Cremona, or were we thinking an island holiday?"


	12. Chapter 12

**Packing**

Douglas decided he had had enough when he was slapped in the face by a flying sandal. He had been lying on the bed beside a bulging suitcase, listening to the soothing sounds of Classic FM and wondering why he had ever thought a holiday would be easy. They hadn't even left yet and Martin had worked himself into a tizzy.

Having seen Martin's flight-bag on a regular basis, Douglas wasn't _wrong_ for having assumed that packing for a week away together would be efficient and neat. Martin kept his identification in one place, his clothes at the bottom, and his toiletries at the top so that he could take them out for the security officers at check-in... when he was on the job.

Douglas wasn't that different. Over thirty years of daily international travel had instilled in him the need to pack tightly and quickly. The only time he had over-packed had been when he had taken his daughters on brief weekends in Europe.

But _Martin_... dear lord, Martin went mad. The bottom layer of their shared suitcase was perfectly arranged. The clothes were rolled into space saving bundles and their shower gels had been decanted into tiny plastic bottles that Martin had bought specially for the occasion. For an hour or so, Douglas had enjoyed the peace of packing as a couple. There was a touching uniformity to the way their things fitted together.

Then Martin had remembered something that Douglas hadn't thought to need. Then another. Then another. Now, Martin was rushing about the house, reappearing only to fluster and flush red, muttering under his breath as he lobbed and tossed and positively flung accessories and spare shoes and first aid kits and things that they didn't even use in their _real_ life into the case – no sense of order, no care, simply a growing mountain of things that Douglas argued against until the effort grew too exhausting.

"_Martin_... what are you doing?" Douglas drawled as another tiny bottle hit his stomach. He spoke just in time to drag Martin to a halt in the doorway. "We were packed an hour ago – we were packed _three_ hours ago, and we're not even leaving for another two days."

He turned the bottle over in his hand and rolled his eyes at the golden font declaring SPF 50. Martin, pale and freckled as he was, would need it he supposed. In his determination to follow some hitherto unknown holiday guidebook, Martin would probably insist on applying Douglas' sun-cream for him if he refused to do it himself – the thought wasn't an unpleasant one.

"Well I'm sorry if I'm inconveniencing you, Douglas, but I thought it would be nice if we were _prepared_," Martin replied. He seemed to pace back and forth whilst standing in one place, wearing a hole in a single spot on the floor. "U-unless you'd rather I stopped. I'll be enjoying the mini-bar while you're opening our suitcase to find that you haven't packed any underwear."

Douglas arched an eyebrow.

"Would that be such a bad thing?"

Martin's frown slipped into a smirk and then switched back so quickly that Douglas almost missed it. He shook his head and crossed the room to take the sun-cream from Douglas. His attempts to neaten the pile of miscellaneous items that he had thrown into their case did nothing to make the jumble look less disastrous.

"Perhaps we should leave _everything_ here and make the most of the room," Douglas suggested, leaning closer and propping himself up on one elbow.

"I thought you wanted to see the sights," Martin shot back.

"Damn," Douglas smirked. "I did say that, didn't I?"

When Martin straightened up, his cheeks were still red and his hands were still jittering in their desire to pack everything he owned, but he was smiling. He trailed his fingers down Douglas' shoulder, along the curve of his arm. Then he pointed a stern finger at him and headed back towards the hall.

"I-if I find anything missing from that case, I won't be happy," he called over his shoulder.

With that in mind, Douglas hoisted himself upright and sifted as subtly as he could through the suitcase. There had to be _something_ that he could remove that would simultaneously go unnoticed, and be of some use to him in its absence.


	13. Chapter 13

**Sunburn**

The sun left Martin red raw. To Douglas' amusement and frustration, Martin met the itch with a cheerful grin and the Dunkirk spirit that could only have come from years of coming out in a rash of freckles and peeling skin. Around the collar and on his arms, it was an attractive sight to see, sending Douglas' heart skipping. His cheeks were less appealing in this particular shade of red, but Douglas was sympathetic enough to grimace.

It wasn't until they returned to the hotel room that Douglas realised just how badly the sun had lashed his own flesh. Prickling with pain, he peeled off his shirt and tried to get comfortable on the edge of the bed, holding his arms out at odd angles to make sure the skin of his shoulders wasn't stretched any more than it needed to be. It wasn't until he felt the mattress dip that he stopped muttering under his breath.

Douglas hissed through his teeth at the first sting of after-sun on the back of his neck. Seconds later, Martin's hands were cool and slick, rubbing circles on his shoulders. If he wasn't mistaken, Martin was sniffing smugly behind him, knee pressing into the base of his spine as he shifted to get a better angle. The press of his hands remedied Douglas' frustration for only a moment before he turned to try and catch a glimpse of Martin's face.

"Anyone would think you _wanted_ this to happen," Martin muttered, no longer hiding his amusement. "I-I did tell you-"

"If you're about to tell me you _told me so_, think again, Martin."

"Alright, fine," Martin conceded. He raised his hands in surrender and the coolness of the balm vanished. Douglas must not have imagined his whimper as Martin's hand returned, stroking more gently. "Honestly though, there are easier ways to get my hands on you."

"Laugh it up," Douglas sighed.

"Believe me, I am."

Douglas reached back to swat Martin's leg and was rewarded with a quick kiss to the cheek, Martin's collar catching on his burnt shoulder just long enough to stop him from turning and returning the gesture. The hands on his shoulders soothed down the length of his arms and up again, taking some of the sting out of the burning sensation and leaving a certain broiling _under_ his skin.

It was only when he heard Martin scoff again – sniggering to himself – that Douglas' patience snapped. Growling low in his throat, he twisted and hooked an arm around Martin's middle. Tipping backwards, he pulled Martin down on top of him and thanked every deity he could think of that they had booked a hotel with sheets soft enough not to scratch his still pink shoulders.


	14. Chapter 14

**Shappey Holidays**

When he was very young – too young to even know how young he was – holidays were the only thing he could really remember besides the walls of his house and the hedges in the garden. If anyone asked him how he spent his time, he would forget all of the unimportant details such as flashcards with the alphabet on and oddly flavoured yoghurts, and instead tell anyone who would listen about the beach. They spent a lot of time at the beach, Arthur thought – him, and his Mum, and his Dad. Mum would turn slowly brown in the sun and Dad – _with_ them again after being away so long, flying planes Mum said – would sit back with a book and let Arthur build sandy mounds over his ankles. Arthur ran in circles and into the sea when his parents were murmuring in low tones and not paying attention, and Mum would run up red-faced and scoop him up before he could go too deep.

When he was a little older, and Arthur knew to pay _careful _attention to his holidays so that he could write about it in the Autumn term – at his teacher's behest – he appreciated the beach more than before. It had always been brilliant, but now it was made of layers and textures – of sand crunching underfoot and the sun burning his skin and the salty tang of the water tickling his nose. Dad didn't join them as often. When he did, he trailed behind them with his hands in his pockets as the three of them walked along the coast. It was only lately that Arthur had noticed the short, clipped way that his parents talked to one another. Once upon a time, he had thought that it was normal. Now he knew that Mum was never so quiet when it was the two of them, before and after school and on weekends alone. On the beach, it didn't matter so much. Things were good, Dad could be convinced to bounce a ball between them, and Mum relaxed as the coolness of the sea licked at her toes.

Beaches in Britain became pure yellow sand on distant islands when Dad traded a job with an airline for his own jet. Arthur's excitement at flying with just his Mum and Dad never faded – Mum played at being a stewardess and he thought it looked far more fun than the stressful job Dad had at the front, even if he _did_ wish that he could fly GERTI too. It brought her to life. The nice thing about islands and private villas was that if Dad went and did his thing somewhere, and Mum accompanied Arthur down to the water's edge, nobody complained. It wasn't as if they were abandoning each other. For a while Arthur convinced himself he was too old for sandcastles. Then Mum rolled her eyes and scoffed and Arthur listened to her explain why wet sand had better structural integrity and hoped that he remembered enough to impress his science teacher when the holidays were over.

When Arthur realised that Mum and Dad were no longer friends, he realised that there wouldn't be any more beaches for a while – possibly ever. Sometimes Mum would take him up the coast on the weekend, but the rainy weather and the miserable donkeys didn't make up for the irritable set of her features. They were brilliant, but they would have been more brilliant if Mum had seemed to notice them at all.

In truth, Arthur didn't pay beaches much thought for years.

He didn't think about it again until he caught Martin and Douglas kicking lines into the sand of a Hawaiian beach, dressed in shorts and t-shirts and sunglasses the likes of which he had never seen on them, arguing over the possible effects of sand in the landing mechanisms – '_It would wear down the moving parts' 'Martin, we have literally landed in the Sahara desert. We drove her, bottom open, through an entirely different desert' 'But that was a different kind of sand.'. _

It was the second Christmas in forty-eight hours and despite their separate plans, they had all come together. Arthur had wandered outside for no other reason than the sun was out and he was stuffed full of lunch. He didn't speak as he joined the pilots. They glanced his way and offered smiles and a short wave each, but they were too tangled up in their affectionate bickering to cut their discussion short. If Arthur was right, they were outside for the same reason as him – there was something alluring about the sea and the sand that drew them in. Martin was already pink from the sun and Douglas' hair was floofier than normal in the light breeze.

The picture wasn't perfect until Mum arrived. She huffed and puffed as her feet sank in the sand, but she never stopped making noise – talking and sniggering to herself as she made fun of Douglas' beach-wear. There was no silence. Arthur followed her when she wandered up to the water's edge and wondered at the fact that he was big enough now to scoop her up if she looked like she might drown. He didn't mention it though. He was sure that she wouldn't appreciate the glimpse into the past. Instead he slipped an arm around her shoulders and asked her whether there were any more beaches on the wall-chart to look forward to.


End file.
